Edenbrooke Read Free Page B

had better not eat anything. You look like the type to become sick on long carriage rides.”
    I remembered well the ride to Bath. I had been ill three times during the journey, once all over my boots. I definitely did not want to arrive at a strange house in that state.
    “Perhaps you’re right,” I said, pushing away my plate. I had no appetite anyway.
    “Before you leave, I have something I want to give you,” Grandmother said. She reached a trembling hand under the lace shawl she wore and withdrew a locket, which she handed to me.
    I carefully opened the gold locket and caught my breath at what I saw inside. Framed within the delicate oval was a miniature painting of my mother. “Oh, Grandmother,” I breathed. “I’ve never seen this before! How old was she here?”
    “Eighteen. It was done right before she married your father.”
    So this was what my mother looked like when she was my age. I had no trouble imagining what excitement she must have caused in London, for she was a rare beauty. It was the only picture I had of my mother, as her other portraits still hung in the silent halls of my home in Surrey. I clasped the chain around my neck, feeling the locket settle against my skin with a comforting weight. Immediately my nervousness subsided, and I breathed more easily.
    A servant announced that the carriage was ready. I stood, and Grandmother looked me over critically from head to toe before finally nodding her approval.
    “Now, I want you to remember what you owe to your family name. Don’t do anything to disgrace me. Remember to wear your bonnet every time you go outside or you will freckle up. And one more thing—” She pointed one gnarled, heavy-knuckled finger at me and wagged it, her face set in a look of absolute seriousness. “Do not ever, ever . . . sing in front of an audience.”
    I pressed my lips together and glared at her. “I hardly needed that last bit of advice.”
    She chuckled. “No, I did not imagine you would. Who could forget the horror of the last time you performed?”
    I felt myself blush in remembered embarrassment. Even though four years had passed since the evening of my first public recital, I still felt mortified every time I thought of it.
    I bade good-bye to her and Aunt Amelia, eager to be on my way, but when I stepped outside, a familiar voice called my name. I cringed. Did I really have to endure Mr. Whittles one last time?
    He walked toward me quickly, waving a piece of paper in the air. “I have brought you your revised poem. You are not leaving right now, are you?”
    “I’m afraid I am. So this is good-bye, Mr. Whittles.”
    “But—but my nephew is arriving today and has expressed an interest in meeting you. In fact, he came to Bath for that very purpose.”
    I did not care to meet any of Mr. Whittles’s relations. I wanted to leave this place and never see him again.
    “I’m sorry.” I gestured at the carriage, where a footman stood, holding the door open for me. “I cannot wait.”
    His face fell, and for a moment something like deep disappointment flashed in his eyes. Then he grabbed my hand and lifted it to his mouth. The kiss he bestowed on my hand was so wet it actually left a mark on my glove. I turned away from him to hide my shudder of revulsion. An unfamiliar coachman nodded to me as I climbed inside the carriage, where Betsy awaited me with at least an hour’s worth of gossip, I was sure.
    “Where is Grandmother’s coachman?” I asked Betsy.
    “He has been laid up this past week with the gout, so your grandmother hired him.” She gestured with her chin toward the front of the carriage. “James is his name.”
    I was rather relieved, actually, to see that it was not going to be a frail old man driving the carriage for twelve hours. This coachman looked much more robust, and he would probably get us there faster too. But Betsy pressed her lips together in disapproval.
    “What is wrong?” I asked.
    “I don’t wish to speak ill of your